


A Picture of Success

by Woldy



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Love/Hate, M/M, Romance, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-07
Updated: 2010-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dumbledore glanced at him, blue eyes piercing, but his voice deceptively mild, “Experience has taught me that when Voldemort tries very hard to acquire something, it is better to ensure that he does not succeed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Picture of Success

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://zephre.livejournal.com/profile)[**zephre**](http://zephre.livejournal.com/) for Snupin Santa 2009, for the prompt: ‘Snape and Lupin assigned to work together to find some arcane artifact for the Order’. Thanks to the Snupin Santa mods, and to my beta [](http://marauderswolf.livejournal.com/profile)[**marauderswolf**](http://marauderswolf.livejournal.com/) who did a fantastic job at very short notice.

An hour after the last visitor left the Sinebrychoff Art Museum, a museum guard made his final patrol before locking it for the night.

He walked slowly through each of the rooms, pausing to confirm that the windows were locked, and that the highest security picture in the gallery was safe beneath its glass case and security camera. It was an ugly picture of a man against a dark background, and the guard wondered, not for the first time, what it was about this particular painting that required such care.

Then, in the knowledge that that everything was as it should be, he turned off the lights, locked the doors, and went downstairs to the meet his colleague who watched over the gallery at night. What the guard, a Muggle, didn’t notice was that someone had tampered with the intricate wards cast around the ugly painting and the window nearest to it.

Around 3am, the security camera overlooking the painting blinked out. By the time the night guard had screwed the top back onto his thermos flask, pulled on his jacket, unlocked the doors, and made his way upstairs, the painting was gone.

The night guard alerted the police and the museum director immediately, but although the police searched every room of the building they found nothing else missing, nor any sign of a forced entry. It was only when the museum director arrived an hour later, grim-faced and pale, that the Finnish Ministry of Magic were alerted that the painting was missing.

By the time that the team of Aurors arrived, hurrying out of the fireplace in the museum director’s office, the thieves were long gone.

**\-------------------------------------------**

 

“Can I have a word, Remus?” Dumbledore asked, as the members of the Order of the Phoenix left the room after their latest meeting. Remus paused, and behind him Sirius hesitated in the doorway, his dark eyes watchful.

“Of course,” Remus said, ignoring Sirius, and sat down again. “What is it?”

“I have another request to ask of you,” Dumbledore said, giving him a long look over the half-moon glasses. “An object that needs to be obtained.”

“All right. What is it?”

Dumbledore’s gaze flicked from Remus to Sirius, who waited just outside the door.

“It is not an ordinary assignment,” Dumbledore said neutrally. “It will require working with someone whose association with the Order must not, under any circumstances, be revealed. You would be committed to working with this person, however unpleasant it might prove.”

Remus frowned, pushing aside a host of questions, and asked, “Why me?”

Dumbledore gave a small smile. “Certain skills will be required in order to retrieve this item. An aptitude for defence against the dark arts, willingness to improvise, the ability to lie and conceal. And, not least, patience.”

Aware of Sirius’ shameless eavesdropping from the hallway, Remus took a moment to weigh his options. If he refused now, he could avoid whatever unpleasantness this task involved and save himself from another round of evasions when the others asked what he’d been doing. If he refused, he wouldn’t have to watch the curiosity turn to resentment and suspicion on Sirius’ face.

On the other hand, their agreement was that Remus takes unorthodox assignments from Dumbledore in exchange for a regular, if meagre, income. It was thanks to Dumbledore that Remus had a flat in Hogsmeade, and although it was dirty and backed onto the Hogs Head where stale smoke permeated through the wall, it was all right. Truth be told, this was better than what Remus expected because he wasn’t reliant on his friends for handouts, or working lousy, temporary jobs where he got fired for missing shifts around the full moon.

Remus enjoyed the tasks that Dumbledore gave him, researching secrecy spells for their meeting places, wrestling with curses, transporting dangerous — and usually illegal — magical creatures and objects. Yes, he had to deal with unsavoury characters and the tasks were dangerous, but what job wasn’t nowadays? It beat working at the Ministry like Lily and Sirius, who always had to watch what they said and look over their shoulders, and spent four days a week shuffling paper in return for their troubles.

No, it would be unfair to refuse. This task needed to be done and Dumbledore had chosen Remus to do it.

“What is this object?” Remus asked again.

“Something that Lord Voldemort is seeking.”

“And it’s important?”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes were piercing, but his voice was deceptively mild. “Experience has taught me that when Voldemort tries very hard to acquire something, it is better to ensure that he does not succeed.”

“Okay,” Remus said slowly, “I’ll do it.”

Dumbledore merely nodded, pushed back his chair and got to his feet. “I will be in touch about the details.”

His purple robes billowing, Dumbledore swept from the room, and bid Sirius goodnight as he passed.

**\-------------------------**

 

The Headmaster’s office had been the scene of many confrontations over the years, obstreperous schoolboys, rebellious staff, and the aftermath of assorted disasters, but Dilys Derwent had never witnessed a scene like this.

On Dumbledore’s desk, an assortment of intricate silver instruments were spinning and whirring, and a large stone Pensieve stood in the corner. Although the agitated young man standing on the carpet had identified himself as a Death Eater, Dilys was surprised to see that the Headmaster’s Foe-Glass was inert, not a single face visible on its silvery surface.

“No,” the young man snapped, “I will not work with that monster.”

Dumbledore spun around, “So it was a pretence when you agreed to do _anything_, Severus? If this is the price of protecting Lily, then you refuse to pay it?”

“Don’t bring her into this —”

“But isn’t that why you’re here, Severus? Didn’t you come to me to keep her safe, and promise to do anything in return?”

Dilys saw fury on the young man’s face, his jaw clenched as though he were biting back words. Finally he spat out, “Why does it have to be _him_?”

“That is none of your business. All you need to decide is whether you will do this or not; whether you answer to me or to Lord Voldemort.”

For a long moment, the young man glared at him, black eyes glittering. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold. “If I must.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore said, his usual tone of a good-natured, eccentric grandfather returned, like a cat sheathing its claws after a kill. “It’s a pleasure to do business with you, Severus. Help yourself to a lemon drop on the way out.”

**\-----------------------------**

 

Dumbledore arrived in Remus’ flat the following night with no prior warning, bent low as he stepped out from the Floo. Remus reflected that these unannounced visits were one of the downsides of being Dumbledore’s man - his lackey, Remus thought in his darker moments.

“Good evening, Remus,” said Dumbledore, and as he flourished his wand, a large armchair with a chintz cover appeared out of thin air. He sat down on the chair and, with familiarity that is almost breathtaking, gestured for Remus to take a seat.

Stifling the urge to be sarcastic, Remus sat.

“The object you will be retrieving for me,” Dumbledore said, “is a portrait of Salazar Slytherin.”

Dumbledore always got straight to the point during these meetings, and Remus felt as though he was a student once again being assigned homework.

Remus blinked. “I thought there weren’t any portraits of the founders. Otherwise, wouldn’t they be in your office?”

“It’s true that there are no _magical_ portraits of the founders,” Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them, “but an ordinary picture of Slytherin was painted after he left Hogwarts. Only a few people knew who the portrait depicted, but until recently, it hung in the National Gallery of Finland.”

“Where is it now?”

“That,” Dumbledore said, watching Remus over the rim of his glasses, “is the question. The portrait was stolen several days ago from the gallery in Helsinki and Aurors have been unable to relocate it. The Finnish Ministry believe that it was stolen by local wizards and will be sold on the black market. The intelligence I have received paints — if you will forgive the pun — a rather darker picture. Voldemort has been making enquiries about the picture and I believe the thieves were directed by his followers.”

“If Voldemort’s supporters already have the picture, then where do I come in?”

“You and your partner will be posing as the Death Eaters sent by Voldemort to collect the picture.” Dumbledore said calmly.

There was a long pause, as Dumbledore watched him and Remus, with a horrible sinking feeling, tried not to imagine all the ways this could go wrong.

“Who is this partner?” he asked eventually.

“Someone who can provide the requisite cover as a Death Eater. Without wanting to belabour the point, I must have your absolute assurance that you will never reveal the name of this person, not to your closest friends, not even under torture. This is of the _utmost_ importance, since the spy’s life would be forfeit.”

Remus thought back to Sirius listening in after the last Order meeting, and to James’ words the night they confronted him about being a werewolf: _no secrets, not amongst us._

“I promise not to break his cover,” Remus said, heart thumping in his chest. “If you want me to make an unbreakable vow, I will.”

“Oh, your word is sufficient. I have arranged for you to meet with our spy tomorrow. You’ll have no difficulty recognising him: his name is Severus Snape.”

**\-------------------------**

 

The meeting place Dumbledore arranged was a private room in the Knockturn Inn, which turned out to be a nasty hotel above a shop with a window display of Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent. The neon sign listed the room prices by the hour, and Remus watched a cloaked figure enter with a tired-looking woman whose skirt barely covered her arse.

It would be nice, Remus thought sourly as he climbed the stairs, if Dumbledore had found a location which didn’t imply he was meeting a prostitute. Or, at least, given him some warning.

The room was small, dirty and the sole furnishings were a single chair and a bed. Remus didn’t want to imagine what the hotel’s clientele had used the chair for, but after casting “_Scourgify_” on it, he took a seat.

Snape arrived late, the hood of his robe pulled low over his face, and the door had barely slammed shut behind him when Remus found a wand pointed at his forehead.

“How do you enter the shrieking shack?”

“By a tunnel from underneath the Whomping Willow. You have to press a knot on the trunk.”

The wand didn’t lower.

“Who sent you here?”

“Albus Dumbledore, leader of the Order of the Phoenix.”

At that, Snape dropped his hand. There was a moment of awkward silence.

“If you were remotely competent, you would have asked me questions to identify myself,” Snape spat. “I could be an imposter. It’s bad enough to be forced into this, without having to play nursemaid for —”

“Name the sister of your closest childhood friend,” Remus said and Snape stiffened.

For a moment Remus didn’t think he would answer, and his fingers tightened around his wand, but Snape said, “Petunia,” in a barely audible voice and turned away, robes swirling behind him.

When Snape lowered his hood and removed the cloak, Remus saw that he hadn’t changed much since school — a little taller, perhaps, but with the same lank black hair, curved nose and the air of resentment.

Remus was occupying the only chair, and since the bed looked as though it might harbour all manner of pests and diseases, Snape merely leaned against the wall.

Remus cast a silencing charm and locked the door with the strongest spell he knew. Snape crossed his arms and sneered at him.

“How do you think we should work this?” Remus said, trying to be polite.

“I don’t think it will work at all,” Snape replied contemptuously, and Remus counted slowly to ten to prevent himself from answering in kind.

“I understand that you are here to provide the Death Eater authenticity,” he said, trying to keep his tone wholly inoffensive. “I will be posing as an art expert. I can arrange for people here to vouch for me.”

“Do you know _anything_ about art, Lupin?”

“Not yet,” Remus said calmly, “but I will. An expert in magical art will be teaching me. We do, after all, need to bring back the right painting. Here’s a picture of the portrait, which you should memorise in case we’re separated. Now, I presume you’ll be disguised?”

“I’ll be using Polyjuice,” Snape said, scowling at him.

“Then it would help if you brought me a photograph of your polyjuice form so that I can recognise you.”

“It would help,” Snape retorted, eyes narrowed, “if you had the sense to establish a security question.”

Remus’ temper flared, and for several seconds, they glared at one another across the dirty room. Through the wall, he could hear grunts and the squeak of bedsprings from the adjacent room.

“If this is going to work, you need to treat me with respect,” Remus says flatly.

Snape’s lip curled. “You’re a monster. You don’t deserve respect.”

“I had no choice over being bitten,” Remus said, his voice cold and deliberate. “You chose that mark, your prejudiced friends and your disgusting, murdering leader, but this happened to me when I was only a child. Have you met Fenrir Greyback yet? Do you know what he does to children? As a Death Eater, how dare you presume that you have the moral authority to – “

“You almost killed me!” Snape snarled, drawing his wand. “Don’t you remember that, or were you too much of a slavering beast to be in control of your senses?”

“_Sirius_ almost killed you,” Remus shouted, as he pointed his own wand at Snape’s chest. “If you have a grudge about it, then take it up with him. I transformed in the place that Dumbledore arranged for me and I never wanted that information to be betrayed. Do you think I relished the thought that you knew about my secret, that you might tell the world out of sheer spite?”

They watched one another, wands aimed as if for a duel.

“I have always tried my hardest to keep people safe. It’s what I do every day,” said Remus, looking into those black eyes. “I could apologise for what I am, but it wouldn’t change anything. Working for the Order, doing missions like this does.”

Slowly, Snape lowered his wand, but didn’t tuck it back inside his robes.

“Fine,” he said, almost spitting the word. “I will agree to withhold judgement. On the remote chance that by the end of this mission, you might have earned an iota of my respect.”

**\--------------------**

 

Remus arrived at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford shortly after closing time and knocked at the side entrance. He didn’t realise that he had been harbouring expectations about the person he was due to meet until an elderly nun with thick glasses opened the door.

“Good evening, Mr Lupin. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Um, yes, nice to meet you too,” Remus said, shaking off the shock of finding a _nun_ who was a witch. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to address you. Is it Sister Beckett?”

“Wendy is fine,” she replied, smiling, and gestured him in.

Sister Wendy turned out to be unceasingly patient in her explanations and had something positive to say about every painting in the museum. Most importantly, she showed Remus the spell that was used for identifying artwork.

“It’s really quite easy,” she said, touching her index finger to the corner of a painting, wand raised in her other hand. “_Primordium_.”

It took Remus several attempts before the spell did anything, and then he was assaulted by a horrible stink of chemicals that made him pull his hand away, coughing.

“Oh dear, yes, it can catch you that way the first time,” Wendy said sympathetically. “There was a great deal of lead in the paint being used in that period, particularly the yellows and — well, that doesn’t matter. Try again. Perhaps this one, which I find has a rather pleasant scent.”

As the evening wore on, Sister Wendy guided him through most of the gallery, beginning in the nineteenth century and working backwards. The first room was filled with nineteenth century religious paintings, many of them Russian, so Remus got a lot of impressions of darkness, snow, and ornate, high-domed Orthodox churches. As soon as he mastered one era, she led him on to the next.

“These are from the sixteenth century. Now, the older the painting, the fainter the sense one gets from it, so you’ll need a bit more concentration,” she explained.

Remus found that he could read some painters better than others, some giving him a detailed image of the artist and his studio while others left only vague impressions of colour or scent. He certainly couldn’t differentiate the Medieval paintings from one another, since they all smelled of wood smoke and gave an impression of guttering candlelight, but he hoped that wouldn’t matter.

“With the Primordium spell, the real challenge is identifying the artist,” Wendy explained, gesturing at a pastel-coloured landscape painting, “Muggle experts are reliant on style, technique, and the chemistry of the materials, but even amongst the best Muggle valuers, sight examinations are hardly more than guesswork. If you only need to judge the era, then you’ll be fine with the spell.”

“What if they have more than one painting from the same era?” Remus asked nervously, and Wendy peered at him through her glasses.

“Well, spellwork is no substitute for using your eyes. Find a good photograph of the painting and memorise it. Pick a section that seems unimportant and compare the pattern of brushwork with the picture in your head.”

“Okay, thanks,” Remus said, and made a mental note to acquire a better photograph. There was no way he could see those details in the small image of Slytherin’s portrait that he’d obtained from Kingsley.

Four hours after he arrived, Wendy was still providing encouragement and an endless source of commentary on the artwork as she led him to a huge terracotta pot with painted figures on it.

“Worth a shot,” she announced cheerfully.

“Isn’t it Greek and about two thousand years old?”

“Oh, it’s rather older than that. Go ahead, if the amphora was going to fall apart, then it would have done so by now. A gentle prod isn’t going to hurt it.”

Gingerly Remus reached out his finger to touch the pot and murmured “_Primordium_.”

The impressions were faint, but he got a sense of bright sunshine, a sea breeze, dusty brown hills in the distance, and most distinctly, the smell of wine.

He pulled back from the pot with a warm glow of achievement. Being able to sense something from two thousand years ago was, well, _incredible._

“It worked then?” asked Wendy.

“Yeah,” Remus said, a smile spreading across his face. “It worked.”

“When it comes to identification, the Primordium spell is the key thing. The history and appreciation of technique helps to enjoy what you’re looking at, of course,” she said, giving Remus a sideways look that suggested she still hadn’t forgiven him for spurning the Michelangelo sketch. “You’ll have no trouble if what you’re looking for is a distinctive painting, and I get the sense that perhaps it is?”

Remus shrugged awkwardly, unwilling to reveal any details. Wendy simply smiled at him.

“If you’re looking for the portrait of Salazar Slytherin, then identifying it will be the least of your worries. Be careful and pack warm clothes. Helsinki is further north than you think.”

He stared at her, aware that his surprise wasn’t particularly subtle, and Wendy patted him on the shoulder.

“Every witch and wizard in the art world is on the lookout for that portrait. Since Albus has sent you, I’m guessing that you have a better idea than most where to look.”

“I can’t say anything, I’m afraid, but thank you so much for your help.”

“Even I’m not completely unselfish,” she said, switching off the lights as they walked towards the exit. “You can tell Albus that I’d like to examine it.”

“I will,” Remus promised.

He left with a sense of foreboding. If it wasn’t just the Order and the Death Eaters who were looking for this picture, then their task might be a lot more difficult than he’d thought.

Remus spent the next two days sneaking into churches and casting the Primordium spell on everything he came across: stained glass windows, pews, carved wooden doors, and a selection of prayer books. He received a lot of suspicious looks and was ejected from one church by stern-faced custodian who caught him touching a delicate wall-hanging, but his confidence with the spell grew enormously.

“You know this one isn’t an original pane,” he explained to the vicar of one church. “It was made at least a century later than the rest of the window.”

The man looked from Remus to the window and back again.

“But how do you know? The glass seems identical.”

“It’s, um, the texture,” he said, improvising wildly. “It’s not the sort of thing anyone except an expert would notice.”

**\----------------------**

 

The second meeting with Snape was a lot more successful than the first, in the sense that no insults were hurled about monsters or Death Eaters. By the third meeting, Snape consented to sit on a conjured chair instead of sneering down from where he leaned against the wall, but Remus undid much of this progress by inadvertently insulting Snape’s potion-making ability.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said hurriedly, “It’s just that Lily usually makes potions for the Order, so I assumed —”

“I am more than capable of brewing my own Polyjuice Potion,” Snape snapped, eyes narrowed.

“I’m sure you are. Honestly, I wasn’t impugning your skills and if I’ve caused any offence, then I apologise.”

Snape glared at him for several seconds and then said, “The implication that _you_ might be even remotely capable of evaluating someone’s brewing ability is certainly offensive, but at least you are developing the ability to recognise the depths of your own ignorance.”

Which Remus supposed was Snape’s way of saying that the apology was accepted.

Unfortunately, whatever good fortune he was enjoying ceased abruptly after their third meeting. He waited almost ten minutes after Snape left, heavily cloaked as always, before exiting the room, but came face to face with Rabastan Lestrange as soon as he left the room. Remus' fingers tightened reflexively around his wand.

“Lupin. Well, this is a surprise. Don’t the sanctimonious bastards in the Order frown on fucking whores in Knockturn Alley? Unless you’ve given up on the Order, of course.”

“Excuse me,” Remus said coldly, but Lestrange stepped into his path.

“I’ll have to tell Fenrir that you’re coming round to his way of thinking at last. He’ll be so proud. He might even want to congratulate you personally.”

Remus whipped out his wand and pressed it against Lestrange’s throat before the man had time to flinch. Lestrange’s eyes widened and his hand groped for the wand hidden in his robes.

“_Expelliarmus!_”

The wand flew into the air and landed on the dirty floor of the corridor behind Remus.

“Greyback has nothing to do with this,” Remus warned and dug his wand into Lestrange’s throat, forcing his head back. “If he comes looking for me, or for any of my friends, you’ll regret it.”

Remus gave a final jab of his wand, causing Lestrange to splutter and clutch at his throat, and walked away.

Behind him, in a voice that was more bravado than confidence, Lestrange called, “If I’d known you were so protective of whoever you’re rutting with, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Remus descended the stairs, half expecting a curse to hit him in the back, and Disapparated as soon as he reached the street. He landed unsteadily in his flat, hands shaking, and flooed Dumbledore immediately.

The sooner the Order knew about the incident, the less damage it was likely to cause. Had Lestrange seen Snape leave? If Snape had been recognised and his cover was blown, then it seemed unlikely he would survive the week. Remus didn’t know what agreement Snape had with Dumbledore and how much protection he would be given, but the thought of what the Death Eaters might do to him left a sour taste in Remus’ mouth.

Or would Snape lie to save himself? That was, insofar as Remus understood the Slytherin mindset, their natural instinct. If the word got back that Remus was disloyal, then he could expect to be hauled in at wandpoint by Moody, or at best to be excluded from future meetings and ostracised by his friends.

Perhaps, though, Lestrange had only seen Remus leave? Then all he had was suspicion and innuendo. Baseless rumours caused harm enough these days, but they were survivable. If all Lestrange knew was that Remus had been there, then they could continue with the plan to retrieve the portrait.

For two days, Remus looked over his shoulder and jumped at shadows, before Dumbledore stuck his head through the Floo and announced that they were — as far as he knew — in the clear.

“You will need to proceed henceforth with greater caution,” he said from amidst the flames.

No shit, thought Remus. “Of course,” he said, “we’ll need to establish another meeting place.”

“That has already been arranged. Severus will come to your flat tomorrow, from the Floo in my office,” Dumbledore said calmly, as though it was perfectly reasonable to invite a spy into someone else’s home without bothering to ask them first.

The next night, Snape stepped out of Remus’ fireplace with a supercilious expression that made it clear what he thought of the bare floorboards and blotchy wallpaper. To Remus’ surprise, he didn’t voice the criticisms aloud.

“In the luxurious House of Lupin, we have more than one chair,” Remus said, joking to make light of his embarrassment. For a moment, the corner of Snape’s mouth twitched upwards.

“Tea? I can recommend a splash of firewhiskey in it too.”

Snape hesitated and Remus was struck by how much the man seemed to have aged since leaving school. They were barely more than teenagers and accepting offers of a drink should be second nature instead of prompting fears about poison, or slowed reflexes and lowered inhibitions.

“Yes,” Snape said, and then after a few seconds added, “thank you.”

They sipped the tea, fingers wrapped around the chipped mugs, and went over every detail of the plan, from their false names to identity that Snape would be polyjuicing into to the time and place of the Portkey.

“So nobody mentioned it?” Remus asked, finally.

“Of course Lestrange mentioned it,” Snape said, casually. “He wouldn’t be Slytherin if he didn’t press an advantage. I told them what they expected to hear: that I’m fucking you in dirty hotels in the effort to recruit you.”

Remus spluttered and spat a mouthful of tea over the floor.

“_What_? Dumbledore said that things were fine!”

Snape smirked at him. “With reactions like that, Lupin, I’m amazed you were given this assignment.”

It took Remus a few seconds, heart thudding in his chest, before he realised what Snape meant.

“That isn’t actually very funny.”

“I beg to differ. But then you thought your friends were _funny_ at school, no doubt.”

“Not always,” Remus said quietly, “but in the future I’d prefer it if you didn’t joke about that. I could do without the heart attacks.”

Snape shot him a sideways look. “You shouldn’t be so easily shocked, Lupin. It’s the obvious cover story if we’re discovered meeting. It’s certainly what I would have told them if Lestrange had seen me.”

“And they would believe you?”

“It’s not difficult to spread doubts about someone’s loyalty. Besides, the Dark Lord has an informant amongst you. Depending on when the news about our liaison reached Dumbledore and what details he heard, we might be able to identify the spy.”

Remus glared at him. To his surprise, Snape laughed.

“Come on, Lupin, you can’t be so naive as to think there wouldn’t be consequences. You need a cover story, and if that story is sufficiently embarrassing, then people don’t look any harder. There are worst things to be said about oneself than a few fucks on a disease-infested mattress.”

“I didn’t realise you’d become so sanguine about gossip.”

“I’m learning to accept anything which will help me survive,” Snape said, sounding tired as he drained the last of his drink. “Besides, cavorting with a dark creature is doubtless more acceptable amongst my colleagues than my supposed longing for Lily Potter.”

Remus opened his mouth, but looking at Snape’s expression, he thought better of it.

“So if any rumours do reach the Order, what do you want me to say?”

“Tell them I’m a good fuck,” Snape said dryly, tossing a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, and disappeared into the flames.

**\------------------**

 

The meeting place for their contact in Helsinki was a seedy pub that reminded Remus of the Hogs Head. Around the bar sat a bunch of red-faced men, and Remus judged from their lack of coordination and the accumulation of empties that these were the local drunks. In the poorly-lit corners of the pub he saw shadier characters, some wearing hoods and more than one of whom had glanced around nervously when Remus opened the door.

The enquiries Remus made amongst the crooks he knew in England had turned up a colleague of Mundungus Fletcher’s who was known for smuggling magical artefacts. There was no indication that the man was a Death Eater, so it seemed unlikely that he had the painting, but Remus couldn’t rule it out. If the portrait had fallen into the hands of a crew who usually engaged in nothing more than “a little import-export”, as Mundungus put it, then acquiring it would be easy. If their contact didn’t have the portrait, then he would, Remus hoped, know who did.

Remus glanced around the room, eavesdropping a little to check that the translation charm was working. He has spent enough time in the Hogs Head and dealing with people like Mundungus to read the signs of a nervous minor crook who was dealing with a transaction that was just a bit bigger and more dangerous than he felt comfortable with. Nobody in the front room fit his mental image, so Remus nudged Snape’s elbow and gestured that they should check the back.

The appearance Snape had taken on due to the Polyjuice Potion was that of a thick-set man with a square jaw and brown hair that was cut very short. It was oddly disconcerting to see Snape in another body. His expressions looked bland without that distinctive nose, clever eyes and expressive mouth. The man who Snape had polyjuiced into both looked and had the body language of a thug, and Remus thought that might work to their advantage because it made Snape easy to underestimate.

Remus walked through the doorway into the back room and saw their contact almost immediately, sitting alone at a table facing the door.

Remus met Snape’s gaze for a moment and saw that he’d seen the man. Without a word, Snape walked over and took a seat. Remus followed him.

Their contact didn’t acknowledge their presence, except to slide a book of matches across the table towards them. Snape flicked it open casually, stared at the contents for a second, and then closed it.

Just for a second, Remus glimpsed the password scrawled inside it, and then Snape tucked the matchbook into his robes.

“We had a pleasant journey. The rumours of lethifolds in this area are clearly misplaced,” Snape said in a low voice.

Across the table, the man’s face relaxed, and he leaned towards them.

“Can’t be too careful at the moment. There are Aurors sniffing all over the place.”

A fly buzzed over the surface of the table, attracted by a pool of spilled beer, and Remus waved a hand to brush it away.

“We quite understand,” Remus said. “Do you have?...”

“I can take you there. I’ve got a Portkey,” the man murmured, barely audible.

At the mention of the word Portkey, Snape’s eyes narrowed and Remus could guess what he was thinking. Portkeys were unpredictable and therefore dangerous; it could be leading them into a trap.

Snape didn’t say anything, but Remus watched him raise his wand. There was a jet of green light and the fly fell from the air, landing on its back on the tabletop.

Their contact’s eyes widened with fear as he looked nervously from dead fly to Snape while Remus tried not to show his shock. He was sitting beside a man who could cast Avada Kedavra wordlessly, with pinpoint accuracy and seemingly as casually as a levitation charm. He knew precisely what point Snape was making to their contact and all the other occupants of the bar: cross me, and I will kill you.

Remus swallowed, his throat dry. If Snape was going to play the thug – and he was off to an impressive start – then any courtesy fell to him.

“I do hope we can trust you,” Remus said, in as neutral a tone as he could muster. “My companion hates to be disappointed.”

If anything the man looked even more frightened, but he stood and gestured for them to follow him. They left the room through a back door that Remus hadn’t noticed before, which took them into a dark hallway, presumably leading to the cellar.

The man produced a newspaper from his robes and held it out. Remus grasped one corner, expecting Severus to take another, and was startled when their contact dropped it and made a sudden movement as though he was going to leave. Every instinct in Remus body said _trap_ and he reached out to grasp their contact’s hand, but Snape beat him to it.

With one rough movement, Snape grabbed the man’s shoulder and pulled him in front of him like a human shield. With his free hand, Snape touched the Portkey and Remus felt the sickening jerk on his navel as they whirled away.

They landed in dimly-lit, windowless room. Remus dropped the Portkey instantly and raised his wand. Beside him, Snape adjusted his grip on their contact, locking his left arm around the man’s throat and grasping his wand in his right.

“You can release my friend there. We’re not going to harm you,” a voice said, and Remus spun to face the sound.

Two men were sitting at a table. The room was barely furnished with a concrete floor and low ceiling, and Remus guessed that it was a basement. He wondered how far they had travelled from the bar.

“Lower your wands,” Severus ordered. “Put them on the table where we can see them.”

The men exchanged glances, clearly reluctant, but Severus lifted his own wand and pressed it against the temple of their contact, who let out a low moan.

“There’s no need to hurt him,” one of the seated men said, throwing down his wand. The other hesitated for a moment and then placed his wand on the tabletop.

Snape released their contact, who looked white as a sheet. He hurried away to stand behind the others. When Snape gestured at him, he, too, dropped his own wand on the table as though it were hot to the touch.

“Show us the painting.” Snape said, stowing his wand in the pocket of his robe.

“Should you not first show us the money?”

“You won’t see a knut until we’ve authenticated it.”

The men didn’t look surprised, and Remus knew from experience that minor criminals were addicted to pushing their luck. He watched one of the men pick up a large brown sack and pulled a painting out of it.

From a distance, all Remus could see was a dark canvas and the large, ornate metal frame.

“Will you put it on the table for me please?” Remus asked, moving closer. “_Lumos_.”

Under his wandlight, it certainly looked like the portrait. Remus took in the man’s long, white beard, the silver locket emblazoned with an S which hung around his neck, and the dark background. Sister Wendy suggested that he memorise specific features of the original, certain patterns of colour or the shape of the brushstrokes, and he leaned in to examine it more closely.

When Remus’ hand brushed the frame he felt searing pain and pulled it away, biting back the urge to cry out. The skin was red and puffy where it had touched and he realised that the frame must be silver. Carefully, he directed his wandlight over the painting, examining it inch by inch, but it looked in every detail like the real picture that he had studied for so long.

Gingerly, he touched the index finger of his left hand to the canvas and murmured, “_Primordium_.”

Instantly, Remus could tell that the picture was wrong. His sensory impressions were bold, almost overwhelming, an image of bright light and strong smell of paint. Remus couldn’t guess at the artist, or even when it had been painted, but this picture had none of candlelight and wood smoke which were common to all Medieval paintings.

He pulled back, letting his senses adjust to the present, and looked up at the men across the table. Remus could tell from their contact’s expression that his news would not come as a shock.

“It’s a fake.”

Behind him, Remus heard the low, silky sound of Snape drawing his wand.

“Now,” Snape said in a voice brimming with menace, “if you produce the real portrait, then you may all emerge alive from this meeting.”

The three men quailed as Snape pointed his wand at them. Their contact, who was standing behind the others, flinched when Snape’s wand gave a twitch.

“It was just a test,” one of them said. “We didn’t mean any harm by—”

“Do you have any idea what the Dark Lord does to people who betray him?” Snape asked, and all three of the men seemed to pale.

“We know where the real painting is!” their contact said hurriedly. “We can arrange a meeting. This is nothing personal, you understand, there’s no slight to your Dark Lord. We want to help but –”

“Bring us the painting,” Snape said, his voice low, “or I promise that none of you will be alive long enough to regret your mistake.”

The men at the table exchanged a glance.

“Tomorrow, after dusk at the ferry port. Dock 29. A man will meet you there and take you to it.”

There was silence as Snape looked at them, his eyes flickering from one to another. Remus didn’t know what was happening, but the intensity of Snape’s gaze suggested that a subtle form of magic was taking place.

Silently, hoping that nobody would notice, Remus flicked his wand and cast a location charm. Runes representing their location flashed into his head and he tried to imprint them on his memory so he could find this place again. This contact was their only lead and Remus knew they couldn’t afford to let him slip.

Snape didn’t say another word, but he turned away from the men, grasped Remus’ elbow and Apparated on the spot.

They landed back in the hotel room. Remus stumbled, feeling Snape’s chest warm against his own as Remus leaned against it before finding his balance.

Silently, Snape walked over to a chair and slumped into it, closing his eyes. He looked exhausted and Remus felt a surge of sympathy.

With this war, too much was being asked of all of them, but as a spy, Snape probably had more pressure on him than anyone. For the first time, Remus could see the way this affected Snape and wondered if Snape looked like this after all his missions for Dumbledore, tension seeping out of him as he stopped playing a role.

Remus shivered as he remembered Snape’s parting words: “None of you will be alive long enough to regret your mistake.” He didn’t want to ask, but doubted that it was an idle threat. Snape’s show in the bar might have been for their contact, but it made an impression on Remus, too.

Snape had done a lot of growing up in very little time and his capacity for violence was frightening, but his control was undeniably impressive. Remus doubted if James or Sirius, perhaps even Kingsley, could have reacted faster than Snape did tonight. Watching Snape, Remus can’t help but wonder how long Snape had been passing on information and whether he had needed all those skills to survive doing it.

“Would you like a drink?” Remus asked, breaking the silence. “I brought some firewhiskey.”

Snape didn’t move or open his eyes, but after a moment he said, “All right.”

Remus took the single glass from the bathroom and conjured another, pouring a generous measure into each.

“Do you think they’ll be there tomorrow?” he asked, out of the lack of anything else to say as Snape opened his eyes and reached for the glass.

“We’ll find out.”

A few minutes later, Snape’s body blurred, shrinking a little as the thuggish man disappeared and he returned to his usual form. There was something reassuring about Snape inhabiting his own skin, dark hair falling over his face as he drank, and Remus felt the release of tension that he hadn’t been aware of holding.

He turned the drink in his hand and winced as the glass touched his burn, almost dropping it. Wincing, he moved the glass to his other hand.

Snape glanced at him, his gaze falling from Remus’ face to his burnt hand.

“It was a silver frame,” he said slowly, looking back up.

“Yes.”

Snape hesitated, then put his drink down and walked over to Remus. He reached for Remus’ left hand, and Remus didn’t resist as Snape cupped it in his palm and raised his wand. With a soundless flick, the pain eased instantly. Remus thought the skin even looked less pink and inflamed.

To his surprise, Snape didn’t drop his hand. Instead, he ran his fingers slowly across Remus’ palm, a light touch that made his skin tingle.

“It will heal,” Snape said, releasing his hand.

Remus stared up at him, and glimpsed a softness on Snape’s face before he turned away.

“Thank you,” he said, voice stuttering slightly.

Remus half expected Snape to make some remark about monsters or the need to be careful, but Snape simply sipped his drink.

The tension in the room eased over the course of their drinks, and what began as a tense silence gradually became companionable. By the time they went to bed, the prospect of sharing a room with Snape no longer seemed as awkward as Remus had feared. He fell asleep to the low, regular sound of Snape’s breathing.

They spent the following day at the Sinebrychoff gallery, on the chance that they could learn something from the location of the theft. In fact, Remus didn’t learn anything new from seeing the empty stretch of wall where the painting had hung, but the gallery was quiet and not too busy, and after a while, even Snape stopped being so jumpy.

At regular intervals, Snape took swigs of Polyjuice Potion from his flask, and the few Muggles who witnessed it gave Snape a pitying look, evidently mistaking him for an alcoholic. Remus thought it was best to let people continue with that misconception, and shrugged apologetically when a security guard turned a reproachful glance in their direction.

Spending the afternoon in the gallery was pleasant, almost relaxing. Remus was in a good mood as they walked back to the hotel. It was an unpleasant shock when Snape grabbed him and tugged him into the shadow of a doorway.

“That dark—haired man is a Death Eater,” Snape muttered, his lips almost grazing Remus ear, and Remus shrunk back further into the shade.

“Did he see us?”

“No,” whispered Snape, and Remus felt something brush his neck – Snape’s hair, or perhaps his shirt collar. “But he could easily recognise you. We’ll have to be more careful.”

It was a close call, and after they were certain the man had left, Remus ducked into a shop to buy a large woollen hat with earflaps. The hat looked predictably ridiculous, not least because the only Finns wearing them seemed to be children, but Remus thought it made him a lot less recognisable.

Snape snorted derisively at the sight of it, but Remus saw the corner of his mouth twitch in what would, on anyone else, have been a smile.

**\------------------**

 

The docks in Helsinki were a silent and intimidating place, thrown into shadow by the boats and huge shipping containers. A cold wind was blowing off the ocean, making Remus hunch down behind the collar of his coat. The area seemed deserted.

It would be all too easy to dispose of someone here by slipping their body onto a boat or shoving them into the freezing water. Remus glanced at Snape, wondering if he was thinking the same thing, but he couldn’t read any expression on Snape’s face. The Polyjuice Potion might be necessary to maintain Snape’s cover, but it made non—verbal communications a lot more difficult.

As they approached Dock 29, Remus saw a large figure smoking a cigarette, silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. Where their contact yesterday had been nervous and clandestine, this man seemed unafraid of making himself visible. Remus didn’t know if that was a good sign or not.

He glanced sideways at Snape, whose mouth tightened.

The man waited for them to reach him. As Remus neared, he saw that the man’s face was scarred and two of his fingertips were missing.

“You’re looking for the picture?”

“Yes.” Snape said curtly.

The man took a final drag on his cigarette and then tossed it into the water.

“Come with me.”

They walked for several minutes, skirting around the edge of the docks towards an industrial area. The man led them into what looked like a warehouse, but once they stepped inside, Remus found it was warm and brightly lit, with wooden floors where he’d expected to find concrete. It was instantly obvious to Remus that these were a better class of criminal than the men they met last night and the implications of that made him nervous.

“In there,” the man said, gesturing to a doorway.

Remus glanced to Snape, who bit the bullet and opened the door.

“Good evening,” a voice said as Remus followed Snape inside.

The speaker was a tall, bearded, blond man, who sat in a plush leather chair with his wand in his hand. Remus saw two others seated beside him, neither of whom he recognised. None of them were big men. From the calculating look in their eyes, Remus judged that they weren’t hired muscle, which didn’t imply that there wasn’t any hired muscle on the premises, especially since their colleague with only eight fingertips was waiting in the corridor.

Remus took a deep breath, fingering his wand, and hoped that he looked more confident than he felt.

“You do not need to threaten us Mr...?” the blond man said, looking at Snape, whose wand was raised and pointed at them.

“Goyle” Snape said curtly.

“Well, Mr Goyle, as a gesture of goodwill, my companions will lower their wands.”

“And you?”

“I prefer to keep it,” the man said calmly.

The man’s accent wasn’t local, but Remus couldn’t identify it through the translation charm he was using. Was it Russian? Or maybe just Swedish.

“Since none of us are interested in pleasantries, you may see the painting.” The man said, nodding at one of his companions.

The man produced a black plastic sack and took a large object out of it. He held it with one hand and pulled aside a layer of fabric with the other, revealing a silver frame.

“May I examine it?” Remus asked.

The blond man inclined his head in assent. “Of course,”

The man holding the painting propped it up against the wall, and then stepped back.

Remus knelt down to look at the painting, feeling vulnerable turning his back to the men but trusting Snape to keep a watchful eye on things.

This frame was more tarnished than the last one, perhaps from spending several weeks in the damp air instead of a museum, and Remus carefully avoided touching it. The painting looked just as he expected, but then so did the last one. He remembered Sister Wendy saying cheerfully: “Even amongst the best Muggle valuers, sight examinations are hardly more than guesswork.”

His pulse racing, Remus pressed his finger to the canvas and said “_Primordium_.”

Images flashed in his mind: _a sneering face, the smell of blood, a hissing snake, wood smoke, the grey walls of a castle rising from the earth..._

“Yes,” Remus said, pulling away and turning to face the room. “This is it.”

Remus saw a small, satisfied smile on Snape’s face.

Foolishly, he was looking at Snape and not the thieves when the blond man spoke genially. “Now that you have established the portrait is genuine, it remains only for you to prove that you are the men sent by the Dark Lord and not the spies that we have been warned are looking for it. Can you show me your mark?”

Remus’ head was already turning at the mention of Voldemort, breath caught in his throat. They had expected questions and some kind of proof, but had never anticipated the need to show a mark. Remus had seen the ugly black coil on Snape’s forearm, but the man Snape has polyjuiced into does not wear a mark.

For a moment, time seemed to slow, and Remus saw the two unarmed men reaching for their wands on the coffee table, but Severus’ wand was already in his hand. Then, a great many things happened at once.

Ropes shot from the end of the blond’s wand, flying towards him, and Remus dove for the floor, throwing himself behind a chair.

He saw Snape stun one of the men, who crumpled to the ground, but the other grabbed his wand and shot a curse at Snape, who deflected it. Snape fired a stunning spell at the blond man, but it bounced off a shield charm and hit his companion, who fell to the floor with a thud.

Remus drew a breath and yelled “_Stupefy_!”, but the spell rebounded away from the blond and shattered a window, raining fragments of glass down on everyone. He saw Snape fire another curse, which the blond man deflected, and narrowly missed the painting before blasting a chair into fragments.

The door burst open and several more men hurtled towards them, drawing their wands as they ran. Knowing he had only seconds to make a decision, Remus pointed his wand at the ceiling and shouted “_Diffindo_!”

With an ear-shattering noise, the ceiling caved in, wood and plaster raining down on them, and Remus narrowly avoided a falling beam. He could barely see through the dust and piles of debris, under which lay at least two of their assailants, and Snape was out of sight. Remus hoped that Snape had already taken the opportunity to Apparate.

He glanced quickly around for the painting, which should be only a few feet away, but he couldn’t locate it. The summoning spell was unlikely to work and in any case, Remus reminded himself, the frame was _silver_. Even if he got hold of it, Remus didn’t know if he could cast a spell coherently while being burned.

Beside him, a dusty shape stirred, and Remus remembered that that these men were still armed. He concentrated on a destination, and Apparated.

Remus landed in a dark alley, wand still clutched tight in his hand. There was a sound behind him, and he instantly spun round, shouting “_Lumos_!” A cat shot out from behind some rubbish bins and Remus took a deep breath, his heart thumping in his chest.

He took moment to collect himself, focused on the meeting spot he had arranged with Snape, and Apparated again.

This time, Remus emerged in a small park in the centre of the city that was empty save for a few people walking their dogs. He waited over fifteen minutes, walking around the park and growing increasingly nervous.

He thought back to what Dumbledore told him at the beginning of the mission. “Someone whose association with the Order must not, under any circumstances, be revealed,” he remembered as a chill came over him. What if he’d done just that? What if Snape had been lying under the fallen floorboards or caught after he left? Once the Polyjuice Potion wore off – which was less than twenty minutes away – Snape’s identity would be revealed, and he could expect to be tortured for information before they killed him. If Snape died, it would be his fault.

With a crack, Snape appeared nearby.

Remus hurried over and said, “Where have you —”

“Walk,” Snape replied in a low voice. Lupin fell in beside him.

“What—”

“Not here,” Snape said tersely, leaving the park and leading Remus away from the populated streets until they reached a road that had fewer street lamps.

Snape stopped in the darkest part of the street, glanced along the road behind them to check that that nobody had followed, and turned to face Remus at last.

“We should set the place on fire.”

“They’ll put it out,” said Remus, frowning at him.

“Not this, they won’t,” said Snape, darkly.

It took Remus several seconds to realise what Snape was suggesting, and the thought was horrifying.

“You can’t, it’ll take the whole city!”

“No, it won’t,” Severus said calmly, “it’s an isolated building near the water. The fire would burn itself out, but we need to act tonight, before they move the portrait.”

“But how are we going to get in to retrieve it?”

“We don’t have to,” Snape said with satisfaction, his dark eyes glittering. “If the portrait has been promised to the Dark Lord, then they’ll bring it out. We just have to be ready for them.”

**\----------------------------**

 

The fire was even more terrifying than Remus expected: monsters of flame surging into the sky, their jaws closing around roof tiles and licking at the wooden beams. There were two doors to the building and Remus watched one while Snape was posted outside the other. Even from where he stood, several metres away, the heat was fierce and the snapping, crackling sounds were almost deafening.

Smoke was thickening around the burning building, but Remus saw two figures stumble out of the door, one of whom was holding a sack. The men plunged away through the smoke and Remus ran after them. It was hard to see anything in the darkness, smoke choking his lungs, and he stumbled over Merlin knows what, before turning the corner and dodging the jet of green light that flew towards him.

Fantastic. The thieves knew he was there, and they were aiming to kill him.

Remus ducked behind the wall and then fired several spells blindly around the corner into the smoke. In these conditions, where nobody could see much of anything, it was pure chance what hit and what didn’t. Since their opponents wouldn’t be able to identify one another, the fact that he and Snape were outnumbered would work to their advantage.

He sent another curse blindly around the corner and then darted round, avoiding the red light which arced through the smoke a few feet away, and felt his way along the wall.

“_Accio_ portrait,” he muttered, but of course that doesn’t work. Maybe something less obvious, though. “Accio frame!”

That time Remus heard a noise, as though someone was shocked to feel an object shift in their hand, and sent a stunning spell flying in that direction. He heard a thump, which could mean that it hit or merely that the man took cover, and praying for the best Remus ran towards the sound, murmuring another stunner as he went.

Nothing flew back at him, and within seconds, he saw a dark shape on the ground. A man was slumped against the wall, a black sack clutched under his arm, and Remus ripped it open and gasped at the pain where his fingers touched the frame.

Gritting his teeth, Remus knelt down, touched the painting and whispered “_Primordium_.” _Blood, stone walls, wood smoke, the smell of beeswax candles... _

Remus pulled back, wrapping the Slytherin’s portrait hastily in the black sack, and tugged his sleeves down over his hands for good measure before picking it up.

The logical thing to do was to take the painting back to their hotel before returning, but that meant leaving Snape in the fire, surrounded by Death Eaters. Abandoning the man twice in one day, let alone when surrounded by Fiendfyre, was more than Remus could stomach.

Remus heard a shout to his left and moved towards it. He couldn’t see anyone, but jets of green light were flying back and forth, so either Snape was there or these guys were firing idiotically at one another. Above the roar of the flames, he heard a shout of “_Sectumsempra_!” and then a horrible scream.

That must be Snape. Remus ducked, trying to shadow his way along a wall, and only saw the dark figure at the last minute.

“_Stupefy_!” he cried, and the man toppled to the ground.

Fuck. If that man hadn’t been facing the other way, if he’d been paying more attention — no, Remus couldn’t think about that. They needed to get out of here.

He couldn’t see Snape and in any case there was no way of reach him without putting himself in the firing line. Remus could send a Patronus, but the light would identify his own position and Snape’s, so they would both be sitting targets. There was nothing else for it.

“Goyle! Goyle, I’ve got it!” Remus yelled at the top of his lungs, and Apparated instantly, landing in a spot perhaps thirty metres away. He watched the spells flying towards the point where he had previously been standing and shouted again, “Snape! Get out of here! I’ve — “

Green light flashed towards him, and Remus twisted desperately, Disapparating when it was only inches from his face.

He landed in a heap on the floor of the hotel room, dropping the painting in the process, and rolled aside swearing when it burned his wrist.

With a crack, Snape appeared barely a second later, on his feet and glowering. The Polyjuice Potion had already worn off, and for the first time in hours Remus saw Snape’s real face.

“Are you insane?”

“What would you have me do, leave you there?” Remus retorted, pushing himself into a sitting position. “I got it.”

“Yes, I heard,” said Snape, sneering. “You had better hope, Lupin, that none of those who remain alive are going to track you down and eviscerate you, because bragging like that is a spectacularly good way to make enemies.”

For a moment there was only silence, and then Remus got painfully to his feet.

“Bragging. Is that what it sounded like?”

“It’s a wonder you’re still alive,” Snape said, and reached for the bottle of firewhiskey. “Drink?”

“I think I’d better,” Remus said. He looked down at his burnt hand, which was red and blistered, and decided that there was no point in running it under a tap.

“That’s the genuine portrait?” Snape asked, handing him a generous glass of whiskey.

Remus took a sip and felt the liquor burn his throat, a reminder of the fire they left raging behind them “Yes.”

Remus took another drink, willing his body to metabolise the alcohol and numb the pain in his hand. He took a moment to reflect: they had the painting. They had set fire to a building full of criminals and Death Eaters, which, by now, would be nothing but ash. They were still alive.

“I suppose you want me to heal that,” said Snape, looking at his blistered hand.

“I’d be grateful,” Remus said, taking a seat on the bed.

Snape crossed the room and sat down beside him, wand in one hand and drink in the other. He put the glass down beneath the bed, took Remus’ hand in his own and flicked his wand. The pain eased, but the pink welts were still visible where the silver had touched his skin.

“There’s, er, another,” Remus admitted, pulling off his coat and rolling up the sleeve of his jumper to reveal the burnt wrist.

Snape’s eyes followed his movements, taking in every inch of bared skin. He hesitated over the red mark on Remus’ wrist, and then flicked his wand again.

“That should help, but in future you might consider gloves.”

“I’ll give it some thought next time I plan to steal an old, creepy portrait,” Remus said lightly.

To his surprise, Snape smiled. He reached for his drink and took a sip, but did not move away.

“Since we’re sharing a room, I think it’s about time we were on first name terms,” Remus said, watching the line of Snape’s throat as he swallowed.

“Are you ready for that, Lupin?” Snape asked, shooting him a sideways look. “A mere nine years after we were first introduced.”

Remus took in the almost imperceptible lean of Snape’s body towards him and the curl at the corner of his mouth. He remembered the way Snape’s fingers had traced his palm yesterday, and how Snape had pulled him into a doorway earlier today, breath hot against his neck.

“Yes,” he said, taking the glass from Snape’s hand, and placing it on the floor. “I think I’m ready.”

Snape was leaning in even before Remus kissed him, curling his hand in that dark hair. Snape’s lips parted, his tongue greedy, and Remus cupped his neck and pulled him closer. They kissed with the urgency of two people who’d risked their lives and survived it, grateful for every breath and heartbeat, and when Snape pulled away, it was only to lick a hot line down Remus’ neck.

“So,” Remus said breathlessly, tilting his head to give Snape better access. “Have I earned an iota of your respect?”

He felt Snape’s lips curve into a smile against his skin.

“Perhaps an iota,” Snape said, and bit Remus’ pulse point, making him gasp. Snape pushed Remus back onto his back, body hot and hard against him, dark hair tangling in their mouths as they kissed, and Remus arched with pleasure, finding a rhythm. The bed rocked and squeaked beneath them, and when Remus used his first name, Snape didn’t protest.

**\-------------------------**

 

It was late afternoon when two young men stepped out of the fire in the Headmaster’s office, and Dilys Derwent recognised one of them as the youth who had been so angry and sullen a few weeks ago. He seemed in far better temper now, she noted, as the men handed Dumbledore a large parcel, wrapped securely in brown paper.

She watched as they provided a brief explanation, standing rather closer to one another than the situation called for in her opinion, and overheard their affectionate bickering before the two young men stepped back into the floo, specifying the same address.

As they left, she saw Dumbledore smile.

“It is impertinent of me, I know, but may I ask what that is?”

Dumbledore looked up at her, his eyes twinkling, and Dilys noticed that every portrait in the room was watching them.

“No doubt you will recognise it, Dilys,” Dumbledore said calmly, “but I must ask that the news goes no further than this room.”

“You have our confidence, as ever, Headmaster,” Phineas Nigellus said in his nasal voice, and Dilys heard murmurs of assent from the other portraits.

Dumbledore pulled aside the wrapping paper, and for the first time in her life — woman and portrait — Dilys stared into Salazar Slytherin’s face. She glanced from the portrait, with its long white beard and hard grey eyes, to Albus Dumbledore who stroked his own beard, his blue eyes calculating.

All the portraits were honour-bound to provide advice to the current Headmaster, but Dilys was old and wise enough not to give unwelcome advice unless she was directly asked. She allowed herself a smile at resemblance, and slipped tactfully away to her frame at St Mungo's as Dumbledore bent low to examine it.


End file.
